


sister-sons.

by bodysnatch3r



Series: The Hobbit Meme Prompt Fills [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin is wounded at the Battle of the Five Armies, Fili and Kili rush to his aide, soon realizing that defending their uncle will come at a high cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sister-sons.

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for this prompt (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=858822#t858822) over at hobbit-kink.livejournal.com.  
> Brotherly angst. I couldn't resist.

> _some folk we never forget_  
>  _some folk we never forgive_  
>  _haven't seen the end of it yet_  
>  _we'll fight as long as we live_

_Don't let go_.

That's all he asks. But then Thorin falls, red blossoming from lips eyes wide, and the roar that explodes comes from both of them and from everyone else, but first and foremost it comes from both, from the sister-sons, from the blonde and the dark, from black eyes, from green. From hands shaking from gaping mouths, as Fili watches Kili launch himself forward, and the heartbeat he feels tastes more like metal than blood.

_Not you. Not my little brother_.

The oldest rushes forward then, and the urgency of seeing his uncle fall grabs the pain of watching Fili run by the throat and they mingle, each slamming each other against the back of his skull. Kili roars as his sword sinks into monster's flesh, he hisses and smirks and there's tears, oh!, there's tears as his brown hair is matted with blood and his lips curl into a snarl.

_Not my uncle you beasts. Not our family_.

And Fili can do nothing but run after him, run and not think, not think, not let himself think. Thorin has fallen. Don't think. Thorin has fallen. Don't think. Don't think. Thorin has fallen, and before he knows it he grabs Kili by the shoulders, shakes him, screams his name as Kili grabs his wrists, squeezes them in fright and panic and adrenaline.

But they're hovering over the Oakenshield: blue eyes staring into a void as hands grasp the ground and wheezed breaths, wheezed. In pain. Their uncle is in pain and time stops- time itself becomes molasses, thick warm wax poured down their throats when they realize that he is alive. He's still alive. 

Fili glances at Kili and Kili glances back, and they wonder if he can see them, past the dark and the pain and the cavern that is his own chest, the empty rattle of heartbeat maddeningly slow and quick at the same time, they wonder if he can see them. 

_Not our family._

Thorin Oakenshield coughs blood, the orcs screech around them. There is no longer time to think, as a vicious beast barrels suddenly towards the two brothers and the uncle, revenge in his eyes. Their heads would look good, impaled on spikes. The reward would be rich.

Feet pounding the ground, mace ready to strike. 

"Together?" Kili asks without thinking, and he's once again tiny and small, no longer the warrior he has quietly become without a single notice. He is the child again, the boy who laughed and smirked and joked, who played tricks and tangled Fili's braids. The boy who stole food from the kitchen and would run down Ered Luin's halls, laughter always a second from shattering teeth. The boy with thin wrists and black eyes.

And then Thorin realizes, because he can see them, he can hear them, through the darkness seeping into his eyes, he realizes what they're about to do,  _and he can hear them_ , despite the ice and cold ringing in his ears and for a second pain makes it so, and he loses sight and feel and taste, eyes that roll back: but he's dragged to the surface once again by his own panic. They're too many. They're too much.

Fili looks to the ground for a moment and then up again, and his eyes are screaming but his lips smirk, twin swords rotating in able hands. He is the warrior prince now, not the child. Not the sturdy, aggressive blonde. There is no arrogance in this manic glint of teeth, no girls to charm, no punishments from mother to avoid.

There is only desperation.

Thorin realizes what they are about to do. And pain makes him helpless. And pain makes him weak, legs made of wood, feet made of metal, tongue nailed to his teeth, glued to his lips. He wants to stand and fight and keep a promise made to his sister. But he won't. But he can't.

Fili looks at his brother. His always in his eyes forever tiny little brother, whom he'd sworn to protect. His young, precious little brother, partner in crime. And his brother looks back: Kili's eyes are the same color of pain, his lips are the same hue of resolutive emptiness.

"Together", Fili whispers. 

*

"...Kili?"

His voice is trapped somewhere between vocal chords and Adam's apple, and it hurts for him to even breathe. Fili can feel broken bones creak as he speaks, a shattered rib, a shattered lung. He twists his head ( _it hurts by mahal it hurts_ ), manages to bring a hurting eye to his hands. Dirty with blood.

His blood? Their blood? Who knows. Who cares.

"Kili?" he asks again, as though, floundering in such pain, he's almost forgotten his brother needs to answer him.

_Needs._  

_Has to_.

" _Kili_?"

A green pained eye that darts when there is no familiar voice that speaks, and Fili pushes himself up and vomits blood onto his hands, his back to his uncle (broken shattered mess of a king) and searches, suddenly, frantically, for dark hair amongst the bodies around them.

Kili is huddled to the ground a few feet away and Fili's stomach is suddenly bottomless, anguish of the end looming.

" _No_ ", the oldest hisses, but it comes out all jagged and wrong and diseased, a disarray of sound he can't even understand and Fili drags himself forward, reaches for a dying brother.

His trembling fingertips brush against the other's back, and Kili moans, turns on his back in a handful of seconds that seem endless and are. Pale, pale, almost on the brink. His black eyes are grey, now. Whatever light is left is hidden deep.

"Fili?" he whispers. " _Fili_."

The second time is not a question. It's a plea.

"I'm here. I'm here." 

"I'm cold."

"I know."

The words feel like shattered glass pressed hard into Fili's tongue. Is it heartbreak or wounds? Maybe both. But then Kili smiles and Fili feels the betrayal and disappointment inside of him nearly swallow them whole: that is a ghost of a smile, what a smile should never be. Kili's smile is ready to be buried, it is the spark taken from his eyes and misplaced in agony. And it hurts him, and it's clear, as a bloodied slit lets teeth stained red shine through.

Kili is  _too young to go_. And so is Fili, in Thorin's eyes, icy blue swimming, his vision is blurry but he is still somehow aware, although the pain has been numbed down to throb, tidal waves of agony he has grown accustomed to in such short time. They're both so young.  _Your line dies with them_.

But Kili is smiling and the pain can stop for a moment and become rage.

"We. We did good, didn't we, brother?"

A murmur born from Kili's childish fears and his never ending search for an accomplice, it rests between them for a few moments, because this right now is certainly not good, and it never will be, not now, not tomorrow, not ever. But they  _did_  do good nonetheless: they survived it all, up to here, the trolls and the goblins and the elves, the dragon and Azog's fury.

And yet Fili can't utter a single word. He's begging himself to speak, right now, begging his own shattered mind to muster a phrase, a choked sound,anything, but he can't. And yet he has to. So he nods, although it hurts, and smiles back and tastes salt and rust, blood and tears.

"Yes, yes, Kili. We did good."

Kili's head rolls back for a moment, his breath hitches in his throat as his body tenses around the wood splinters thrust through his bones and flesh, darkness that kisses him for a second and something more. Fili knows he's just clutched him harder, nails buried into his cloak. He's not ready to let them go. Not right now. (He's not ready to go). Fili squeezes his eyes shut, concentrates on the songs he knew as a child, on the lullabies. It soothes the fear.

"He's going to survive, isn't he?"

They both know who Kili's talking about, and Fili's eyes widen, and he glances back to his uncle, and his green eyes meet murky blue ones. There's nothing left apart from the distant knowledge that death will not let them go. Thorin still breathes, but he is gone. The line of Durin is to be buried that night.

It is what has been decided by fate, or bad luck, or both.

And in that moment, Fili understands. He understands so much he knows speaking would be worthless, and besides Kili is too tired to open his eyes, to weak to think about anything at all. So he needs to force himself to tear his eyes away from his uncle's empty ones, rest a sweaty forehead against Kili's chest: a newfound pang of pain is throbbing through his bloodstream, death gallops against his lungs. Or what remains of them. 

He wishes he didn't have to lie.

"Yes, brother. He will."

And yet he understands he has to.

Fili is finding it hard to feel the drizzle that has just started to fall, blessed acid water that wets wounds and makes flesh burn. There has been a battle raging on around them, behind them, next to them: but in these painful moments, they don't matter, do they? And neither does the fight to them.

Fili lets himself close his eyes only when he can't hear his brother's heartbeat anymore. Only then does he let himself go. Only then do they slip away, just a moment out of grasp.

If Thorin could scream, he would.


End file.
